Holding up Half of the Sky
by LovelyStories96
Summary: John and Sherlock have never met. Sherlock works alone. That is, until he is captured by a maniac, hell-bent on playing a deadly game. Enter Dr. Watson - recently returned from the army and captured by the maniac, to be Sherlocks "medical equipment". Now Sherlock and John must solve his puzzles, or watch London burn. Warning: Includes Johnlock romance, suspense, blood and cussing
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or references or BBC or anything else that clearly isn't mine in this story.**

* * *

The sound of dripping water wakes him up.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

Even half awake, he can tell that the drops are falling from a height of about 12 feet, and that the metal bucket that is catching the water has a maximum diameter of about 11 centimeters.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

It is starting to get annoying now, that dripping sound. But for some reason, his eyes refuse to open. It is as if they have been glued together. Odd. He's never had a problem waking up before.

If anything, it is going to sleep that is always difficult.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

His irritation grows as the drops continue to fill the metal bucket. Eyes still closed, he raises a hand to rub his eyes.

And then immediately winces, letting out a slight hiss. The pain from touching his left eye jolts him into a fuller state of consciousness.

_Plink. Plink. Plink. _

Gingerly, he opens his right eye. He is lying on his back, on the floor of a small room. A very small room. Three by four meters, it looks like. Keeping his left eye squeezed shut, he sits up. Immediately, a wave of nausea came over him, and he retches.

Well, dry heaves would be the more accurate description in this case. He hasn't eaten anything for almost three days now. Maybe more. He can't tell how long he has been here.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

Coughing, he manages to keep himself in a sitting position. He looks around as best he can from his position in the middle of the floor. From what he can see, there is a door, which is straight in front of him. Reinforced metal, obviously. The back wall seems to be made of the same material, and has a seam that runs down the middle. Windows are absent, but a small vent in the corner of the ceiling. No chance of escaping there – he will barely be able to put his arm through it, let alone his body.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

There is a mirror on the wall to the left of him. Tiny, big enough that if he stands up, he will be able to see his face. It hangs precariously on a nail, clearly added as an afterthought. As if someone wants him to be able to see his injuries as well as feel them.

A tad cruel, considering the situation he is already in.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

There is no bed. A worn, tattered blanket is lying in the right corner of the room, obscured by shadow. The only source of light is a tube light in the middle of the ceiling.

It flickers ominously.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

He takes a deep breath, and then proceeds to fold his long legs under him, so that he is sitting on the back of his legs, the way children do. This simple act takes a surprising amount of energy, and he pants, trying to catch his breath.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

After a few more minutes, he manages to stand up, bracing himself against the wall. He staggers, his abnormally long nails scraping against the concrete for purchase. Standing is taking a lot of effort, and his heart rate accelerates. His breath is coming in short gasps, but he manages to stumble to the mirror, placing one palm on either side of it to keep himself from collapsing.

He looks up.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

The sight that greets him is not a pretty one. His left eye is completely swollen, an ugly purple bruise forming all around it. He touches it gingerly, and then wishes he hadn't. It feels much worse than it looks.

His lip is split as well, though the swelling is not nearly as bad as his eye.

He has scratches on his face, as if he had fallen face-first into a pile of gravel. His long coat, and his suit jacket are gone. The collar of his white shirt is dirty, and is stained brown with dried blood. His black hair is sticky with sweat, and his plastered to his head.

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

He moves his head side to side, and then rotates his neck. Nothing feels broken, although his neck does seem a bit sore. He carefully removes one hand from the wall and pulls on his collar.

There is bruising on his neck, imprints of large hands.

He was strangled, then. For some reason, he cannot remember the origin of the injuries he is examining.

Interesting.

_Plink. Plink. Pl—_

A grinding sound interrupts the sound of the falling water (the bucket, he notes as he whirls around, is in the far left corner of the room). The back wall is parting along the seam that runs through the middle of it. Behind the wall is a large flat-screen.

It flickers to life. He watches it, eyes narrowing.

It shows an empty chair in a featureless room, similar to the one he is in, only bigger. He waits, not knowing what to expect.

He hears a scuffle, and he turns slightly, half-expecting to see the source of the noise behind him. But when he turns back to the screen, he sees the real origin.

A young girl, twenty years old from the looks of it, is being wrestled into the chair. She is gagged, and her long blond hair is disheveled. Her eyes are wide with panic, and they fill with tears when they make eye contact with the person behind the camera.

The girl has a pale red handprint on her right cheek, as if she has been slapped. Other than that, she seems unharmed.

"Hello Sherlock." A voice sings. A silky voice, a sly voice, one that he has been searching for ages. "Awake, are we?"

Sherlock doesn't bother to answer.

The voice continues. "How are you feeling? That bruise is looking rather nasty."

Sherlock immediately scans the room, and then inwardly groans at his stupidity. In his stupor, he has missed the tiny camera lenses that are embedded into the walls. There are thirteen in total, three on each wall (on in the top center of the wall, in the very center of the wall, and then in the bottom center of the wall), and one in the ceiling, right next to the tube light.

"Very good, Sherlock. Finally noticing things, aren't we?"

Sherlock's face remains impassive.

"You may be wondering why we are all gathered here today."

Sherlock blinks.

"You see, this young woman," Sherlock's gaze snaps to the woman, "is here to atone for her sins." The woman has been bound to the chair, with thick rope. Her feet are cuffed to the chair.

"In doing so, she will be the key to saving the lives of so many others, Sherlock. Her punishment will have to be severe, I'm afraid. Her crime was quite…intolerable." The voice trails off, and a small red dot appears on the woman's forehead. Sobs wrack her body as her eyes flit up to the gunman.

"However, I'm sure it won't affect you, when I tell you what her death _could_ mean." The word "could" is heavily emphasized.

"What it could mean is the saving of your little playground. You are no longer king, Sherlock, but you can still prevent your kingdom from falling into ruin." The voice pauses. "All you have to do, Sherlock, is figure out what this lovely woman's sin was." Sherlock's eyes narrow at the use of past tense. There is no hope, then.

The woman seems to realize the same thing, and her eyes shut.

The adrenaline is pumping through him now, though he is in no danger. He absently wonders if he can bargain for this woman's life, but then tosses the thought away. Her fate is sealed. No, it is the puzzle, and the thought of the price of not solving it that is driving Sherlock now.

"If you don't find the answer in time, if you play the fool, Sherlock…well, let's just say that you won't have much of a home to return to." The voice is slightly amused now. Sherlock feels the nausea from before threatening to come back.

"You do love games, Sherlock, and so I have created the ultimate game. Just. For. You. And I will promise you, Sherlock, that if you try to wiggle your way out of this, by finding a loophole…" The voice turns harsh. "You are going to wish that you had never been born."

_Bang!_

Sherlock starts a bit, and then looks back at the screen. The woman's body has gone limp, her head drooping. He can see a clean bullet hole in the center of her forehead. He feels his throat go dry.

"Three days, Sherlock. You have three days."

The screen goes blank.

* * *

Sherlock stares at her.

They brought the body in about five minutes after the television had shut off, and the back wall had been restored. Sherlock has been staring at her for the past hour, trying to figure out what she could have possibly done wrong. His hands are pressed together, and his chin rests against the top of his fingertips.

Her name is—was—Samantha Fleming. Twenty-two years old, according to her driver's license (a purse had been haphazardly thrown in with the body as well). Five foot eight, sixty two kilo grams. Her face was quite symmetric, which meant that she would have been considered "pretty".

Sherlock has already worked out certain details, but there are some larger ones that he can't figure out with just the body. He stares at her for a little longer, and then decides. If Sherlock is to solve this, he needs equipment, and he needs it now.

He stands up, facing the camera that is on the top of the right wall.

Looking straight at it, he says "I need equipment." He waits a few seconds, and then continues. "If you're really going to play a game, then you need to give me the pieces. I can't really do much with just the board."

He hears the back wall grind open again, and the TV flicker on.

This time a black screen appears.

_What do you want?_ The words appear on the screen.

"Medical equipment. I need proper medical tools so that I can examine the body in detail." He taps his foot, impatient now. Time is wasting.

_Anything else?_ Sherlock knows that the person typing these words is being sarcastic now. But he pretends not to notice. He might as well take advantage of the question.

"Yes, actually. A microscope and a basic chemistry set would be lovely." He can practically hear the teeth gnashing on the other side of the screen.

_Fine._

The TV turns off, and the back wall slides back into place.

Sherlock resumes his original position, sitting against the left wall, and waits.

* * *

**A/N: I've been toying with the idea for this fic for ages. So pretty please with a cherry on top review this! I want to know if I should continue this fic or not. I know the first chapter is slow, but I had to set things up. If it's any incentive, John shows up in the next chapter. Though he doesn't really say much.**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock doesn't know when he falls asleep, but he wakes up due to another disturbance.

Not the water, this time. Sherlock had already taken care of that by stuffing the ratty old blanket into the bucket.

No, this time, it is the door opening. Sherlock's eyes crack open.

Two men come in. Two extremely burly men. Sherlock is instantly awake.

"Get up." The slightly more heavy-set of the two says.

"Why?" Sherlock looks up at them, still slumped in the same position. The body, he notes, has been removed.

"Your tools have arrived." The other says this.

Sherlock's eyes narrow, and he flicks his eyes over the two men. The heavier one is from North Ireland, obvious from his accent. Both his parents are dead, and he murdered his wife, from the looks of it. He is not doing this job because he is being forced to, he is doing it because he wants to. No. No, because he _needs_ to. Ah. He owes the boss, and he feels the need to pay off his debt. The other man is from London, and he is quite the opposite. He is doing this only for the money, and hopes to get out of it alive, just so that he can feed his family and then give them money to get out of England. Silly hopes, really, because he won't be allowed to leave in the first place

"Have they, now?" Sherlock says. "Are you here to take me to them?"

"Yes."

"And the body?" Sherlock knows perfectly well that the body is going to be wherever the tools are, but he prefers to play stupid. It is easier when the henchmen don't have much of an idea of his abilities. They clearly haven't been warned, otherwise they wouldn't have engaged in even this much of conversation.

"With your tools."

Sherlock decides that it will be easier to cooperate. "Alright."

The men stand him up. Sherlock rolls his eyes when they proceed to blindfold him and cuff his hands. Honestly, where would he want to go? He wouldn't abandon the puzzle and try to escape. That would be futile and stupid, bordering suicidal.

One of the men tie a rope around his neck, and then spins him around a few times, probably in the hope that it will skew his sense of direction. How idiotic. Sherlock resists the urge to scoff. He knows perfectly well that he is facing the door again, it was only a matter of counting the rotations.

They lead him out—quite literally, as one of the men is holding the end of the rope that is tied around his neck—and down a few hallways. Sherlock doesn't bother trying to remember the route. If he did escape, finding an exit wouldn't be a problem. It would be the potential of one man against twenty that would be the real issue.

He is pushed into a doorway. The handcuffs come off, and then footsteps walk back towards the door. He hears the door shut, and then the soft hiss of an electronic lock sliding into place.

Sherlock takes off his blindfold. He is in a large room, this time, at least five times the size of his old one. The floors of the room are concrete, as are the walls. There are no windows, as expected, and fluorescent light bulbs dot the ceiling. A granite countertop lines the left wall with Samantha Fleming's body lying in the middle of it. There are cupboards below the countertop, no doubt containing his requested chemistry set. A TV has been placed in the wall to the right of Sherlock. It is even larger than the one in his previous room, though Sherlock doesn't see the benefit in that. There are cameras in this room as well, even more than before. There are six on each wall, and one right above the television, mimicking a webcam on a computer screen. In the back right corner is a double bed, with a thin mattress and a slightly less worn out woolen blanket. Right above the bed is a tiny vent, identical to the one from his other room. There is a door in the back wall, slightly ajar, and Sherlock can just see the silhouette of a showerhead.

The room is surprising, to say the least. Lavish, considering the circumstances.

Sherlock frowns. Prisoners are not meant to have decent rooms, especially with a captor such as his. There has to be a price for facilities such as the one he has been given.

Just then, the television comes to life. It is the same black screen as before.

_Liking our new home, are we, Sherlock?_

Sherlock faces the camera that is above the television. "Quite."

_How about the supplies?_

Sherlock walks to the counter, and opens the cupboards underneath it. The chemistry set is anything but basic. The first set of cupboards reveals chemistry tools, including beakers, pipettes and Erlenmeyer flasks. The next set of cupboards has drawers in it. When Sherlock pulls out the drawers, they are full bottles. Each bottle is full of a chemical, complete with a label and a little dropper. There are about seventy of these bottles per drawer, each holding about 200 milliliters of fluid. There are a total of three drawers in the cupboard. The chemicals have been thoughtfully alphabetized. The third and final set of cupboards reveal his most necessary tool. A microscope. The microscope is a duplicate of the one at St. Bart's, complete with a computer for searches. Sherlock notes the excess of wires in the back, which will allow him to pull the microscope and computer onto the countertop.

He turns back to the TV.

_Well?_

"This will do." But something is amiss. "Where is my medical equipment?"

_Now, now, Sherlock. We mustn't be greedy. _

Sherlock frowns.

_I gave you a chemistry set that would rival any university. You cannot expect that I would give you medical equipment that would be equivalent to a hospital._

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

_I still got you some equipment. Well, a piece of equipment. But it is, I confess, rather unconventional._

"Where is it, then? This unconventional piece of equipment?"

_When I say unconventional…_

Now he is just wasting time. Sherlock's impatience gets the better of him. "Tell me where. Now."

_Don't be rude, Sherlock. _

Sherlock waits.

_Bathroom. _

Sherlock turns to go, but sees some more text flicker onto the screen out of the corner of his eye.

_Be careful, Sherlock. He is a little delicate right now. _The screen goes blank.

He?

_He_ is a little delicate?

Sherlock strides to the bathroom and pushes the door open. The showerhead that he had spotted earlier is on the left of the doorway. There is a mirror with a sink straight in front of him. Behind the door, on the right, is the toilet.

And slumped against the toilet is a man.

A very unconscious, very pale, man.

* * *

Sherlock has managed to drag the man out of the bathroom.

The man is lying on his back, next to the bed, while Sherlock contemplates whether he should get the on the bed, or leave him on the ground.

In the end, he elects to leave him on the ground. He doesn't have the strength to get him up anyways.

The man is in bad shape. He has a bad head wound, which has bled into his blond hair. His face is scratched up, and his lip is split. His breathing is labored, but not too labored, meaning that he has probably bruised his ribs, but not broken them. He has to be a doctor of some sort, because he is Sherlock's "medical equipment", but he is clearly living on very little money. His pants are stained in multiple places, and they are loose for him. His jumper looks old, and has turned a slightly brown color from the off-white it used to be. The soles of his shoes are extremely worn down, though the tops have been regularly polished.

Sherlock doesn't know what to do with him. He watches the man for a few more minutes, but nothing changes. He leaves the man by the floor, bored, and walks to the counter. The body looks the same as it did back in his other cell, so he can assume that they have not tampered with it.

He opens the first cupboard and grabs a few beakers and test tubes, along with a couple pipettes. From the second cupboard, he selects a few chemicals. Placing these by the body, he opens the third cupboard. With a grunt, Sherlock hefts the microscope, and then the computer, onto the counter top.

Slightly out of breath, he walks back to the body, pulls on a pair of gloves from the box on the counter, and prepares to begin his work. Just then, however, he hears a small beeping noise. Sherlock turns. Large, green numbers have appeared on the television screen.

_61:59:57_

A countdown, in hours, minutes and seconds. The last two numbers are constantly decreasing.

_61:59:50_

Sherlock has been expecting this. What he hasn't been expecting is the loss ten hours.

"Why have you taken away ten hours? I was hardly asleep for an hour in my cell, and then you brought me here. At most, it has been two hours since the victim has passed." Sherlock doesn't even bother looking at the camera. He just watches time slip through his fingers.

_61:59:23_

The countdown disappears, and the black screen from before reappears.

_You didn't think you'd be getting all this equipment for free, did you?_

What?

_No, Sherlock. For everything I give you, there is a price. I didn't give you three days for nothing. _

Ah. A barter. He hasn't given Sherlock three days to solve this, he has given him seventy-two hours with which to bargain. The chemistry set and the unconscious doctor were worth ten hours. Sherlock assumes that every other little thing he'll need, such as phone records and pictures of her apartment, will cost him time. He can have everything he could possibly need to solve the case, but he will have to give up his time.

And less time means more mistakes.

Which means more wrong deductions.

Which means consequences. Deadly consequences.

_Tick tock, Sherlock. _

The countdown resumes.

_61:57:44_

* * *

**A/N: See that Review box? It's calling your name. **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: All the reviews from the last two chapters made my day! I had to go to the doctor today to get some minor surgery done (nothing too big, I'm A-okay), and all of your reviews made me smile, even though I was suuuuper nervous. Thank you so much! Just for you all, this chapter is a bit longer than the others. And we finally see some Sherlock and John interaction. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or direct quotes from the show (direct quotes have been starred). All characters and main plot ideas belong to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

* * *

Sherlock's mind is racing away. He works, and works, pulling samples of dirt from the woman's shoes (flats, with insoles inserted – she had a foot problem then) and examining her clothes with a little magnifying glass he found with the supplies.

Every few minutes, he will turn around and look at the countdown.

Last time he checked, it said that he had spent two hours, thirty three minutes and twelve seconds examining the body.

An hour, two minutes and forty-two seconds later, Sherlock stops his work after checking the clock.

He turns back to the corpse, a frustrated growl building in his throat. Sherlock hates to admit it, but he needs more. He needs phone records, statements from friends and families (he's sure that they are available; this man seems to have everything at his fingertips), records of her workplace, _anything_ to make the vague picture he has now a little more clear.

However. Sherlock Holmes is not a man without an ego. Some would say his ego is bigger than his vast, never-ending mind. Sherlock does not want to beg him for these supplies; he does not want to be forced to give away that which is most precious to him – his time.

But he must. If he is to solve this case, and to save the city from whatever it is that this man is planning, Sherlock has to get more.

And he needs to get it now.

Sherlock turns away from the body, and walks towards the camera. He opens his mouth.

"I—"

Sherlock is cut off by a slight wheezing coming from the man, the unconscious doctor, who is still lying by the bed. Sherlock freezes, his body tense. He does not know how this man will react to being in a strange place, with a strange man, and a corpse. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock is not exactly adept with human interaction.

The man coughs again, this time louder. His following breath is wheezy, and his face contorts in pain.

Sherlock weighs his options. He can either stay by the counter and watch the man cough, or walk to the man and see if he needs anything. He decides on the latter; he cannot allow the doctor to cough himself to death, after all. He is Sherlock's medical equipment, whether Sherlock—or the doctor, for that matter—likes it or not.

More importantly, it may be interesting to see how this man deals with pain, even if he is only semi-conscious. Sherlock has learned that watching one struggle with painful encounters tells a lot about one's character.

He walks over to the man. The man's eyes, which were previously relaxed, are now squeezed shut. So, he is awake then. Awake, but not able to gain control of his body.

Sherlock can sympathize entirely. Well he could, if Sherlock Holmes were being to sympathize at all.

The man coughs again and rolls onto his left side, his face dangerously close to Sherlock's scuffed up shoes. Sherlock takes a step back, and waits. The coughing continues, the man's entire body taking the force of the coughs.

Sherlock absently wonders if he should assist the man in any way. Then he decides against it. He's never been one to comfort those in pain, and this seems like one of those cases where the attacks must take their course of action before any interference. The man's coughing does not cease, and for the next five minutes, Sherlock watches, mildly fascinated.

For anyone else, that thought would have seemed morbid – the thought of watching a man who is clearly in agony, and being fascinated by it. For Sherlock, that is normal.

Finally, the coughing stops. The man rolls onto his back and takes a deep breath. It is slightly less wheezy than the ones from a few minutes ago. A good sign.

The man's face contorts a little more, and then he gasps. His eyes flutter, and then they open. The first thing Sherlock notices is the startlingly blue color they are.

They dart about, taking in the ceiling and the surrounding area. And then they land the pair of shoes next to his left cheek. His eyes travel up to meet Sherlock's.

"Hello." Says Sherlock, looking down at the man.

* * *

Twenty minutes have passed since the man woke up. He is now sitting on the bed, his head in his hands.

Not the man. John. Dr. John Watson, though Sherlock has felt no inclination to call him Dr. Watson (and John does not seem to have a problem with being known as just John).

At first, after Sherlock had helped him off his feet and explained to him where he was, John had been disbelieving.

"But how could I have been captured? I was a soldier, for God's sake. My training was to avoid situations like this." He kept repeating this sentence, though the variations had each been slightly more colorful than the last. Army doctor. Of course. Sherlock had known that from the moment the man had opened his eyes, and proceeded to stay completely calm, despite the fact that he had woken up in a completely alien environment, with a completely unfamiliar man staring at him. That, and the fact that John completely ignored his injuries, though they were obviously giving him a lot of pain.

Then, came the fury. "That fucking bastard! I'm going to kill him once I get out of here, I swear it." Sherlock had smirked at these words. The man behind the cameras would have enjoyed that little comment.

Finally, the curiosity has arrived. "But, why are we here? Why me? Why you?"

John now looks at Sherlock.

"Who are you?"

In the whirlwind of emotions that the doctor has been displaying, Sherlock has neither had the chance nor the implication to introduce himself.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock watches John, but no sign of recognition dawns on John's face. He doesn't know who he is then. "I'm a…detective of sorts. A consulting detective, if we're going to be specific."

"A what?"

"A consulting detective. It means that whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me for help."*

"Oh. Er…right, then." John chooses not pursues this line of questioning. Instead, he turns to the more pressing issue. "And why are you here, Mr. Ho—"

"Please, call me Sherlock." Sherlock despises being called "Mr. Holmes". It makes him feel like Mycroft, which is the last thing he would ever want.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" John doesn't miss a beat. Not affected by people being abrupt. So, he has seen a lot of action in his days as a soldier. Promising.

"I have been tracking the…the man behind all this for some time now." Sherlock offers no more on the matter. He watches John as the cogs in his head turn. After a few moments, realization dawns on his face. John has figured out that Sherlock got careless in his search. That he got clumsy, and that clumsiness led him to getting caught. Sherlock pushes away the memory. It will do him no good to get upset over something that has happened in the past.

"Do you know why I'm here?" John says after a moment.

Ah. The turning point. Sherlock has two options. He can either tell John that he is here because of Sherlock, because Sherlock requested medical equipment, and this man's idea of a joke is to send him an army doctor. In the process, Sherlock will be risking alienating John, making an enemy out of a man he desperately needs as an ally. Or, Sherlock can lie. Lie, and tell John that he has no idea why John is here. But that they both must ally together against this man if they want to have any chance of getting out of here alive.

He processes these options in a matter of seconds, and comes to a conclusion.

"I don't know." Sherlock has never felt guilty lying. Why should he now? Besides, this was for the greater good.

Still, Sherlock cannot ignore the miniscule tingle of regret in the far corner of his mind. He tells that tingle to shut up.

John has stopped talking. He looks thoughtful now. Sherlock takes this opportunity to tell John about the puzzles.

"The man. He has presented me—us, I suppose—with a puzzle. We have to solve it within the given time. If we don't…The consequences could be deadly." Sherlock was never one to beat around the bush.

"What kind of puzzle?" John looks inquisitive.

"Come and see." Sherlock motions for John to follow him, and leads him to the corpse. It takes John a little longer to get to the counter – Sherlock can tell by the sound of his footsteps that he has a limp.

At the counter, John looks the corpse up and down, and then at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow at the clothes that Sherlock had stripped off of the body and throw into a pile on the ground.

"I have no interest in the woman, only in the clues her body provides." Sherlock states simply. John nods, meeting Sherlock's eyes.

He looks back to the body. As if a switch has been flicked, John immediately goes into doctor mode. "Right, then. Estimated time of death is about…er, six hours ago. Killed by a gunshot, quite obvious. Looks like a 33mm bullet, from a rifle, most likely, point-blank range, based on the fact that the bullet went through the back of her head. The rifle probably had a telescopic sight attached to it, which gave the shooter more precision in his aim. Still, the shooter had to have a steady hand to get the bullet straight in the center, indicating a trained shooter…" John trails off and looks at Sherlock, who is only somewhat impressed at John's skill level. "What exactly does he want us to do with her?"

Sherlock snaps to attention. "He wants us to figure out her life-story. He killed her in front of me," John pales a little, but Sherlock continues. "Saying that she had committed some sort of sin. Our job is to figure out what that sin was. He has given us a time limit. We now have…" Sherlock looks back to the countdown, and John follows his gaze.

_57:40:25_

"How much time did we start with?" John asks.

"Seventy-two hours."

"And the countdown started once you received the body." It is a statement, not a question.

"Right around there, yes." Sherlock treats as a question anyway.

"Well, then that's all wrong. You can't have spent fourteen hours with the body if the woman has only been dead for six."

"The hours do not only represent time, John, they represent items. Items I need. I requested a chemistry set to do my work, and so he took ten hours off of the clock. For everything I request, there is a price. That is the beauty of it. He knows I need time, but that I also need certain parts of this woman's life to solve the puzzle. He is playing the two things I need the most against me, and there is nothing I can do about it except shrug my shoulders and hope for the best." Sherlock says none of this with the slightest bit of emotion, but deep down, he feels a slight twinge of anger. A little spark that is just waiting to be blown into flames. But, no. Sherlock could not allow that to happen. The last time he had allowed himself to _feel_…well, it had been a disaster. And that was coming from Sherlock.

He waits for the doctor to say something, but John stays silent for a few minutes.

Sherlock speculates if he has angered the man. Though he cannot see why that would be the case. He has hardly said anything that could make one angry. Maybe he has intimated him? Sherlock has been known to that to even the most stone cold of men.

At last, John says something. "Well, we had best get to work then."

* * *

_In a hidden room, in a hidden building, in a hidden world, a man's eyes flit over twenty-five different screens. _

_He watches his puppets dance. They dance even without him pulling any strings. How utterly convenient, albeit a little boring. _

_A small smile forms on his face. Though calling it a smile would be like calling a splatter of rain a hurricane. An overstatement of epic proportions._

_No, this is not a smile. This is a twisting of the mouth, a small motion that is full of the utmost malice and anger and trickery. This man is a master trickster, and he is creating the ultimate trick, the ultimate act that will leave the world with scorch marks and little left but despair. The ultimate web for his ultimate opponent. _

_He watches the two men on the screen get to work, he watches how one of them puts on a show for the other, and how the other applauds in awe. He watches the slight beginnings of a relationship forming, the delicate seeds of friendship already being planted, though neither of them can know it yet. _

_Yes, this will be fun, won't it? Give a child a new toy, watch him play with it, fall in love with it. And then, at the last second, take it away and throw it in the dumpster. _

_Fun would be an understatement. This isn't fun. _

_This is intoxicating._

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*This is a direct quote from the BBC series "Sherlock", Series 1, episode 1 "A Study in Pink". It was said by Benedict Cumberbatch, the actor who plays Sherlock, and was written by Steven Moffat, one of the writers and executive producers of the show. I do not claim to own this quote, I have simply used it in my fanfiction.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, I know, two author's notes in one chapter, I'm being a tad excessive. Anyways, I just wanted to say that chapters 4 and 5 should be up within the next few days. I'll be leaving town on Tuesday, and will be back on Friday, but fear not, I should have chapter 6 up by Saturday, Sunday at the latest. (When I give a deadline for a chapter, I mean the day in my time. I am going according to PST time). **

**Anyways, off you go. Go write me a review telling you what you think. **


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